


The Light in the Darkness

by aehopprs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidents Happen, Angst, Blindness, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jim is a dick, M/M, Poorly written mysteries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aehopprs/pseuds/aehopprs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I vowed never to tell him how I felt, for I didn't want to lose the one person who put up with me, and kept this vow, until one particular case threw my world into disarray. It was the case that rendered me blind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Hope you enjoy this Johnlock pre-slash fic!

I was lying to John when I said I was married to my work, that evening when we chased the taxi. I was very, very lonely, and seeking company. And so was he.

My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am the world's best and only consulting detective. I work alone, but for the exception of Dr John Watson, my flatmate. He was, as idiots say, an anomaly.

He wasn't an anomaly to me, of course. But sometimes his reasons for doing what he did were astoundingly hard to decipher. For example, why he stayed with me regardless of the countless warnings to the contrary; why he didn't move far away after being strapped with bombs. Why he showed me patience, affection, and concern.

He forced me to eat when I was on my thinking sprees. He brought me the newspaper when I was in a rant. He circled interesting articles that he thought may be of interest to me. He pacified Mrs Hudson when I shot the wall… again. He got my skull back, he liasoned with Lestrade when I infuriated him past the point of tolerating me. He was there for me like no one else was. And I found myself experiencing emotions I had never felt before. I felt changed, and it was odd. I had changed, for John Watson. I vowed never to tell him how I felt, for I didn't want to lose the one person who put up with me, and kept this vow, until one particular case threw my world into disarray.

It was the case that rendered me blind.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock!" called Dr John Watson, waking me from my sleep. I shot up and stumbled to the wardrobe, to throw on my robe, before skidding to the door just as he opened it.

"Ah, John. I was wondering when you would wake up. I've been thinking, and I reckon Lestrade will be calling today. I read in the paper yesterday about inquiries into a certain 'suicide' that looks suspicious and I just have that feeling that says he'll be round, begging for my help, as always." I drawled, covering up for the fact that I never get out of bed until he calls, which he does every morning, and like every morning I pretend I have been up for hours.

"And I suppose, as always, you'll want me to assist you because no one else will help?" John smiled, sending palpitations through my heart. I hate it when he does that to me, making me weak at the knees. It feels like I'm completely out of my depth, something that is normally a physical impossibility for me and something that I in no way like. I do put up with it, however, for John. When I nodded, he chuckled. "How did I guess. Anyway, Mrs Hudson said that, even though she is our landlady and not our housekeeper, breakfast is on the table. She also told me to tell you that you shouldn't be so rude to me, because I am a perfectly respectable young gentleman, and if you have kicked me out of the bedroom for something you think I've done wrong then you should be ashamed of yourself, and to hide from her until she calms down," he smirked wryly, and my heart nearly stopped.

"I suppose she woke you up in your room, then? That woman refuses to believe that we are not together, and are perfectly content with not sleeping in the same bed." I countered, even though in my mind I was screaming that I was most definitely not content sleeping in a different bed. "I shall get dressed, and meet you in the kitchen for breakfast. Freshen up, John; Lestrade is coming over early today." With that I shut the door and rested against it, tilting my head back. After contemplating my fate for a few minutes, I reluctantly jumped in the shower and got dressed in my customary black tailored suit and deep purple shirt, carefully arranging my hair and slipping on those expensive Italian shoes. Before I knew it I was walking into the kitchen where John sat, reading the paper, dressed in casual low-slung jeans and white shirt, covered by one of those hideous granny-knit jumpers he refuses to throw away. Now that he's lost weight, I really must get him fitted for some suits. He brings down the reputation of the business with his boy-next-door look. But then again, people are more willing to talk to him than to me. Maybe a fitting is not to be on the top of my priority list.

"Sit down, Sherlock. There's coffee there, and bacon and eggs, or porridge if you wish," John gestured, not looking up from the paper. I grabbed an apple from the counter and bit into it, leaning against the worktop behind my flatmate, scanning the newspaper. It seemed as though there was an official investigation being made about the supposed suicide, which meant…

Ding Dong!

Ah, there we are. Lestrade. John and I looked at each other knowingly, and moved into the places we usually assumed when the Detective Inspector decides to drop in; me on the couch, thinking out loud about something exponentially brilliant and waving my riding crop around in the air whilst John types up what I was saying. We could hear him stomping up the stairs so the fun began.

"So we can see from the evidence found in Donovan's car that she is indeed… oh that is brilliant. He's in on it too! Anderson had the 'day off due to illness' when he was really… The whole set up of the station revolves around the two of them!" I leapt up, as if to conclude my amazing point about the two most moronic officers in Lestrade's station, then pretended to notice the man himself standing, almost hiding in the doorway, trying to hear what I was saying about his team. "Oh, good morning Inspector. I take it you've come to beg for my help on the suicide? The car crash?"

"Well, you know I wouldn't come to you if I wasn't desperate, Holmes. There's been another one. It looks like the Study In Pink all over again, but not pill-induced suicides. We need your help." He looked pained to admit it, and I had to turn my back to hide the smirk.

"What do you think, John? I mean if you aren't too busy I guess we could gift this poor, stupid man with my superior intellect, and solve another case for them," I pretended to consult the man sitting by our desk, winking.

"Well it would mean we would have to stop working on the Dono-" I cut over him, playing out the scene that would no doubt drive Lestrade crazy.

"That's the confidential one, John." Spinning back to the DI, I smiled. "We'll take it. Go back to your toys, and let the big boys do the work."

And thus begun my downfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Hope you like it.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a relatively easy case; a middle-aged woman crashed into a brick garden wall with her seatbelt on, creating lacerations on her shoulders and neck. Nothing suspicious, apart from the bruising on the bottoms of her hands, which indicated a struggle and pounding of fists, showing that she possibly had no way of stopping the car. She was forced to drive to her death. It made me think of A Study in Pink again, apart from the fact that the evidence was glaringly obvious; this was not, in any way, a suicide.

"So, Sherlock?" questioned Lestrade, interrupting my rapid-moving thought processes. "What do you say?" I turned and smirked at the officer.

"Clear murder; signs of struggle, no mud transferred from the sole of her shoe to the acceleration peddle, bruising on the base of her hands indicating she made fists and pummelled them onto the steering wheel, from these lines here, and the window of the car, due to the general, lighter surface bruising. She intended to get into the car, but didn't make any move to start it. Someone else was controlling the car. From the model, Audi Q7, no more than three months old judging by the condition of the paint, six if she keeps it in good condition which is unlikely due to her housewife style. However there is something off about the car; it is a rear wheel drive." At the blank looks, I scoffed. "It must be odd, living in your minds. So much empty space. Audi always refuse to build rear-wheel cars. They stick to all-wheel or front-wheel drive. Anyway, our victim was not at home when she got in the car, she was intent on going home, shown by the throwing of the bag into the passenger side, not done when one goes out for easy reach when they arrive; it is clear that she was going to take her time leaving the car when she got home. Mud on the base of the shoe indicates a field, possibly dropping a son to football; judging by the amount of lipstick missing, less than a normal application, she kissed someone goodbye before leaving. Any questions?" I asked, finished with my deductions.

"That was… astounding." Muttered John, causing me to turn away, for fear my cheeks would stain pink.

"Come on then, you madman; we have another crime scene to scope. I'll put Donovan onto finding the relatives of the deceased." Lestrade sighed, walking back to his car. I snapped my gloves off and threw them at Anderson, who loitered irritatingly on the edge of the area.

"You can play now, Anderson." I called over my shoulder. John barely kept down a laugh as we walked to the road to get a taxi, side by side. It was endearing the way he admired my thought processes, and tolerated my constant abuse of all those around me. "Tell me, John; what type of person do you think did this?" I asked, eager to see if he was thinking along the same lines as I was.

"Well, I don't know. It wouldn't be another Moriarty case, would it?" he asked almost fearfully. A shiver flew down my spine; so he was thinking what I was thinking. "I mean, he's played with us for long enough, hasn't he?" I shook my head.

"I was contemplating the idea of another Moriarty case, too. He'd never give up; he thinks he's too clever. He's my 'fan'. He knows everything about us and won't stop until we give in. He wants me to admit that he's better than me." I looked down, frowning.

"But he's not! Sherlock, don't even think about it," John warned. I glanced up at him to see his face filled with anger. "You might think you'd be saving people's lives by surrendering to him but you'd only be fuelling his fire and letting him think that he's so good he can do whatever he likes because even the great Sherlock Holmes could beat him. Don't give him that satisfaction." John was right.

"You're right, John," I admitted. "Anyway, we have arrived. Hurry, we haven't got all day!" I called as I shot from the taxi, leaving John to pay. I know he didn't mind, because I paid him back discreetly, or if I forgot, Mycroft did. I felt him jog up behind me and huff. Interesting.

The scene of this crime was completely different to the first, but I could see that there were certain similarities, ones that were subtle to idiots, yet to me were glaringly obvious. John looked at me, confused.

"How on earth could this be related to the one we've just come from?" he questioned, looking at the crash. "For a start, the victim is a man, a middle-aged man. I just think that it is a poor coincidence that one woman was murdered and this man crashed." I shook my head and pointed to the car.

"Another rear-wheel drive Audi, an Audi A4 Quattro. Look at his shoes; mud. If you observe his fists there is the same obvious bruising as the first victim. He crashed into a garden wall too, resulting in right shoulder whiplash. There is something else… trauma of the CD player, do you see?" I spun around, throwing my hands up. "Of course! Oh, that is brilliant. Look at it! There was some removal of the CD player in the Q7, and in this car too! If I…" Pulling out some tweezers, I stuck them in the CD player and pulled out… "Yarn?"

"It's a message, isn't it, Sherlock." John's alarmed voice penetrated my thoughts. I was putting it all together… there were letters, there was a message… Rear-wheel, Audi, Mud, Obvious bruising, Trauma of CD player, Yarn, Right-shoulder whiplash…

"Moriarty. John, he's told us it's him." A quick rearranging of the letters made M.O.R.I.A.R.T.Y. Our worst nightmare. Suddenly my phone went off. "Hello?"

"Hello, Sherlock; did you miss me?" the Irish lilt of James Moriarty filtered through my phone and John's eyes went wide. He could hear the madman. "I got bored… so I decided to play a game. Get in the car, Sherlock. I know you know what will happen to you, but I bet you want to see if you can escape." The phone went dead, and I looked up, over to where our taxi dropped us off. There was an Audi TTRS sitting in the spot, empty. I looked at John, who shook his head fearfully.

"No, Sherlock, don't you dare. It will kill you, do you understand that? You may get off on the investigating but playing his games will get you killed!" he almost yelled, causing Lestrade to look over.

"I know I can figure it out, John. I need to go; tell Lestrade what we discovered. Oh yes," I paused as I was walking away. "We need more milk." Then I went up to the Audi, climbed in, and it drove off. I was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

The first thing that turned on in the car was the CD player, which unlike the other cars was not tampered with. It was Jim Moriarty, speaking to me on a pre-recorded CD.

"I'm so glad you got in the car, Sherlock, it would have been an awful shame to have killed little Johnny boy." That was true; I had seen the red dot between John's eyes when I was on the phone; I had no choice but to comply with Moriarty's wishes. That, and my curiosity was burning. "See, I got bored, and I decided to play a game. I don't want you around, Sherlock Holmes," there was a pause in which I could almost hear him trying to build up the suspense. "I want you dead. But, if you manage to figure it out and stop the car, you will live." The tape started to play gentle classical music, and I slammed my hands on the steering wheel.

"They got into the car voluntarily. Why would people do that? Unless their cars happened to be identical to those that killed them. Okay. Then how is the car controlled?" I stopped, thinking about it. "Simple yet effective. There is no method of integrating a computer system into the car to control it that would be easy enough to splurge on a killing to get my attention, so it is literally remote controlled. And the asphyxiation was caused by the tampered CD player… I've got it!" I cried, sitting up. "But that means… I can't stop it." Realisation dawned on me that I was stuck in a car, careening to my death. I quickly took off my thick coat, placing it over the wheel so my head wouldn't shatter on impact, and placed my scarf in a padding fashion on my shoulder while putting the seatbelt on, dragging out a bit to use as a gas mask in case I needed it, though I doubted it seeing as the CD player was fully functioning. Doing this, all I could do is watch where I was going to crash into, and send a message to John. Deciphered the murders, and the motives behind it. Can't stop car; remote controlled by JM. Sorry. SH.

The streets of London flashed past, and the tension built in the small yet powerful car. I knew that there would be irony in where I was killed, but I was only just figuring out where. Left, right, straight, bypass, lights, left, straight, lights, right, traffic bypass, left… oh god. I was going to crash into our home. The car was heading for 221B Bakers Street. I had to warn Mrs Hudson. Mrs H. Get out of house; car careening towards it. Can't stop. Thanks for all. SH. I send a quick text to her, then my thoughts turned to my brother. Should I let go of the past? Should I move past the childish feud in my final minutes? I decided I'd never get another chance, so texted him too. Mycroft; sorry about the feud. But you experimented on my dog. So I experimented on your girlfriend, psychologically. Fair game, I know. Sorry for all these years. SH. There it was; my confession of why Mycroft's only girlfriend moved to the other side of the world when he was seventeen. I was ten, and he had 'experimented' on my dog, who I was teaching all sorts of things, meaning he died. I never forgave him, but now was the time, now I was hurtling at… Christ, seventy miles an hour to my death. There was our home, just down the street. I closed my eyes, and the last thing I thought of was smiling blue eyes, on a war-hardened face. John…

There were three texts on a phone in a car wreckage on Bakers Street, London. They read;

Sherlock! Get out of that car! You can't die! Why did you… Please survive. I need you. JW.

I'm out already. What car? What are you thanking me for? Tea's on the table.

What is happening, Sherlock? Why are you apologising? Text me back. I will be round in twenty minutes, don't do anything rash. MH.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's POV

Sherlock had got in the car. He had received a phone call from Moriarty and had gone to the car the maniac had sent for him. He'd left me and gone.

I thought we were closer than that.

Over the months we had been living together, Sherlock and I had been in some pretty tough situations, including my life nearly ending when I was strapped into a bomb vest. It was then that I realised my petty crush on the worlds only consulting detective had grown to love. I was ready to sacrifice anything for him. But I was not ready for him to sacrifice himself.

I haven't told him how I feel. I'm not stupid; I got the message that night in the restaurant when he said he considered himself married to his work. Anyone could work that one out. So now, I live with the genius, I follow him around, I clean up his messes, I pick up the pieces, I make sure he doesn't destroy himself and I show him the care that others are not patient enough to give him, the care he deserves. I felt a presence behind me from where I stood, staring at the spot the car had vanished from, and turned to see Sally Donovan.

"Where did the freak go?" she asked disinterestedly, most likely because DI Lestrade told her to and not out of any actual concern. "Off to become more of a psychopath?" I scoffed.

"When will you get it? He is a sociopath, not a psychopath. They are two entirely different matters." At her blank stare I continued to elaborate. "Sociopaths are people who have antisocial personalities caused by social or familial dysfunction. Psychopaths are people whose antisocial personalities are caused by an abnormality or defect within themselves rather than their surroundings. So get it right. Sherlock is a high-functioning so-ci-o-path." I stressed before storming off. I needed to do something, anything to take my mind off the fact that Sherlock had just willingly got into a car that may kill him. I went over to Lestrade to relay Sherlock's findings, though it pained me greatly to do so… thinking about Sherlock, the man I loved, walking so casually to his possible death. "DI," I greeted, seeing him smile quickly in response. "It's Moriarty, and he was just killing these people to leave a message to Sherlock; Mud on shoes, Obvious bruising, Right-shoulder whiplash, Interior intact; see the airbags didn't even go, Audi cars, Rear-wheel drive, Trauma to the sound system, and Yarn found inside. Only Sherlock would have figured it out," my voice was dangerously near to cracking, so I turned away. "I need to leave, Sherlock's run off again," I joked, but Lestrade knew my heart wasn't in it.

"Thanks for the information, Dr Watson. We'll be in touch about anything else." Lestrade replied, before busying himself with the crime scene. I just wanted to know whether Sherlock was safe. That was all. Just then my phone vibrated in my coat pocket, bringing me out of my reverie. My breath caught in my throat; 1 New Message from – SH. The text read Deciphered the murders, and the motives behind it. Can't stop car; remote controlled by JM. Sorry. SH. I panicked. No. He couldn't die, he couldn't leave me, not once he had become my anchor after I returned from the war, not after everything we'd been through. I quickly came to my senses and tried to type out a reply, my hands trembling astronomically, when an incoming call stopped me in my tracks. MH.

"Dr John Watson?" I answered hesitantly. I could hear on the end of the line rushed noises, like someone was in a hurry, but this was Mycroft's number; he never hurries.

"John, I need to know where Sherlock is. He has just messaged me apologising for the feud that started when we were younger. He would never do that unless he thought he had little or no chance of surviving a situation." Not for the first time that day my blood ran cold. "Tell me, John; where is my little brother?" it was completely new to hear Mycroft so unprofessional, to hear his concern so clearly for his brother not hidden behind sarcasm or feigned indifference.

"Moriarty. Moriarty called him and he got in a car… it's remote controlled and Sherlock says he can't stop it. He… he just got into the car…" I could feel tears pricking my eyes and angrily wiped them away.

"Right, I will send a car for you and together we will go to your flat. I'm sure he won't be harmed; he's a Holmes, after all." Mycroft hung up, not even asking for an address. Before I knew it a car swung around the corner and I clambered in, resuming my attempts at typing to Sherlock. Eventually I got out; Sherlock! Get out of that car! You can't die! Why did you… Please survive. I need you. JW. I felt so lost, so broken not knowing if he had been driven into a wall or not. I just sat in shell-shocked silence while I was driven home, the bad, nauseating feeling in my stomach growing as we neared 221B Bakers Street. The journey took ten minutes from where I was, so there was ten minutes of pandemonium inside my head. I was so worried.

Smoke. Smoke was billowing from the middle of Bakers Street and it was swarming with ambulances and police cars. Dear God no. I threw myself from the car, which was slowing down, and shot like a bullet towards our flat. The area was cordoned off but I just ducked under the tape; I needed to know, I needed to see for myself. And there it was; the silver Audi mangled and crushed in the entrance way to 221B Bakers Street. There were paramedics and police officers lingering everywhere, when a wheeled stretcher made its way past me, over the rubble. I flung myself in its path, ignoring the protests from the paramedics, and stared down at the bloody face of Sherlock Holmes.

"No! Sherlock!" I heard myself cry, falling to my knees at his side. People were trying to talk to me, trying to move me but I fought them off. "Why did you get in the car, you idiot? Why!" I yelled. Suddenly Mycroft and Lestrade were there, helping me up and turning me around.

"John, calm down." Mycroft soothed, trying to retain composure whilst staring at the broken form of his brother. "Moriarty was caught; I had people scout the area for him and they found him. I will deal with him appropriately. For now, we must accompany Sherlock to the hospital. Come, I will get you in the ambulance with him." I nodded numbly and followed, stumbling on pieces of brick. "Mrs Hudson was not in the building at the time," he added, making me remember that I hadn't even thought about our kind old landlady. Guilt surged through me and I embraced it, letting it take me away from the thoughts of Sherlock's prone body lying on the gurney. Mycroft got me onto the ambulance, where I grasped Sherlock's hand, and the rest was a blur. Even the Doctor within me didn't want to hear what they were saying; it just meant I'd know exactly how bad his injuries were, and at this moment I didn't want to know. I just wanted Sherlock, my Sherlock, to be alright.

How naïve I could be.

**Author's Note:**

> This does lead up to slash, I promise, and I'm in the process of writing the sequel.
> 
> Also I'm not very good at thinking up mysteries, or I wasn't when I wrote this when I was 15.


End file.
